


Night's Candles

by hedda62



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Community: Meme of Interest, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-15
Updated: 2013-05-15
Packaged: 2017-12-11 23:55:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,171
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/804723
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hedda62/pseuds/hedda62
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They may only have one night.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Night's Candles

**Author's Note:**

  * For [killalla](https://archiveofourown.org/users/killalla/gifts).



> My dear prompter: I tried, and I couldn't quite. So if you want the ending you asked for, just stop at the first set of asterisks. The rest of us will carry on. :)
> 
> Thanks to yunitsa for the beta!

"Again," John said, "the answer is no."

"I just feel that I could be of help--"

"Harold. No. You are not coming with me. I need you here, listening in on the police scanner, on the phone with me and with Lionel. We'll need to find that third bomb, and you're the only one who has all the information and the time to piece it together. I'll be a little busy."

"A little busy being blown up, Mr. Reese," Harold snapped. John could hear panic and anger vying for attention, barely disguised under what Harold probably thought was the voice of reason. He was seated at one of his computers in the Library, typing furiously; there was no point inquiring what he was doing or whether it had any real purpose beyond keeping his hands busy. It was ten o'clock in the evening; John felt strangely as if the desk lamp was the only light for miles around.

"I know how to deactivate at least ten different kinds of triggering mechanisms," he told Harold.

"But you aren't planning to deactivate them; you're planning to _get blown up._ And I'm only saying, at least I could work on the bomb vest in the back seat while--"

"I'm planning to tie the perp up, drive the car full of explosives as far away from innocent people as I can get, and then work on deactivating both bombs if there's time. Otherwise I assure you I plan to run like hell."

"And what if there's no timer, and you can't know--"

"Then I'll use my best judgment, Harold. Which I hope you trust."

Harold shut his mouth firmly and nodded, but he wasn't done arguing, and John felt neither as certain nor as calm as he was trying to sound. It wasn't every day he tried to prevent what could be the slaughter of dozens, hundreds, at once; in the old days he would have said it wasn't his job. Even now, as rules changed by the hour, they would have called in assistance if Mirkovic hadn't been more dangerous for what he knew than for the way he meant to kill himself. The number had come in as "Ernest Thornhill," only the third time the Machine had alerted them to a threat to itself, and as before the alert was followed by silence, an abrupt contrast in an entity that had become almost chatty if frequently capricious. The man John would likely die with tomorrow morning had already sent Shaw to a hospital fighting for her life, had followed Harold home and nearly taken him out before John intervened, had threatened Carter and scared Root even more out of her wits than she already was. They couldn't take the chance of telling anyone the full story. Fusco and the rest of the NYPD just knew there was a bomb; they weren't aware of the one in the car or the one on the perp's body, just the missing one they hadn't yet been able to trace, and John would happily sacrifice his life to find out where it was, and whether this guy was working with anyone else. Not that torturing information out of someone already planning mass murder by suicide was simple, especially while driving a rigged car through city traffic. He'd do the best he could.

"I spoke to Shaw's surgeon," he told Harold now. "She'll make a full recovery, though it'll be a good two months before she's back in operational shape. In the meanwhile--"

"In the meanwhile, Mr. Reese," Harold interrupted, too high-pitched, "let us not assume that anyone is replacing you."

"I thought you were all about the contingency plans, Finch."

Harold stopped typing and glanced up at John, twisting his whole upper body to do so. It was utterly familiar and still somehow surprising; John caught himself thinking _I may never see him do that again._ "What?" he asked.

"I am, of course, fully prepared to move on to a new arrangement," Harold said. "That doesn't mean I wish to _discuss_ …" He stopped, let out a shaky breath, turned back to the computer and kept talking. "I've made my objections to your scheme and you aren't interested in listening to them. Perhaps you ought to go home and get some sleep."

John almost wanted to test the suggestion by walking toward the door, but joking came easier. "I haven't gotten around to having dinner yet. Aren't you going to offer me the condemned man's last meal? Filet mignon, lobster, champagne? I happen to know it won't break the budget."

"First of all, Mr. Reese, you are _not_ …" Harold's control splintered; he bit his lip, swallowed, and stared fixedly at the screen, full of what John hoped was reassuring computer code. "Damn it," Harold managed finally, and then, as John moved closer and put a hand on his shoulder, "Don't you _dare_ offer comfort to me. Don't you dare."

"All right," John said, withdrawing his hand. "I won't."

"You can have anything you want for dinner. Including champagne, if you consider this a celebration."

"I wouldn't mind thinking of it that way. But I'm fine with Hot Pockets and beer. I'd like your company, but if you can't stand to look at me--"

Harold's chair scraped back and he stood abruptly, wavering on his feet and then turning to face John. He stared, intently, as if memorizing John's face. "Anything you want," he said, voice quivering. "You can have it. What do you want, John?"

_To live,_ John thought, but it was the last thing he'd say, because Harold would try to give it to him. _The last thing I'll say,_ he echoed to himself. _Nothing like going out with a bang._

"You," he said, before he could stop himself; and he didn't really want to, anyway. It was too late to hold back; too late to regret anything. "I want you."

Harold's eyes widened slightly in surprise, but he must have known. If John had ever actually made a move and been rejected, he wouldn't have the balls to ask now, but he'd come so close so many times. He'd touched too often, gazed too long. Made the wanting obvious. And Harold knew everything about him, and he'd never said no. Not that he'd said yes either.

It seemed like minutes they stood there, eyes locked, but it was really only seconds before Harold took one lurching step forward and said, as if it was the simplest thing in the world, "Then of course you can have me," and reached up to bring John's face close to his.

"Although," he added some time later, when the first tentative kisses had turned hotter and wetter and longer, "this isn't doing a great deal for the resolution to stick with your plan." He sounded breathless; he probably needed to take things slower. John didn't mind that at all. He was feeling more grateful for Harold's generosity by the second, and they had plenty of seconds left. Fewer minutes, and not nearly enough hours, but lots of seconds.

"Speak for yourself," he said, pulling Harold closer and nuzzling his neck. "I'm good with this."

"Whereas I," Harold countered -- he had a disconcerting tendency toward full sentences and formal turns of phrase when his heart rate was up -- "must proceed on the assumption that, ow" -- John had nipped him -- "I'll be selfish enough to want this more than once."

"I could probably manage twice, Harold. Not as young as I used to be, but--"

"I didn't mean tonight." Harold pulled back, looked John in the face. "I meant… I kept saying to myself, not now, not the right time; it'll still be there tomorrow. _He'll_ still be there tomorrow. But if you're--" He seemed suddenly to run out of words; clutching John's face between his hands, he kissed him, deeply, roughly, with filthy abandon, pressing up against him, erection hard against John's thigh. This wasn't Harold being generous; this was Harold being greedy. This was Harold regretting, just as much as he was, that they hadn't gotten around to this much sooner. This was Harold wanting him back.

_Yes. Oh,_ fuck, _yes._

"We should have just done it on a park bench as soon as you said we were both going to die," John murmured, biting Harold's ear, dropping kisses along his jaw, trying to resist grinding into him, failing. "Not that I fell for you quite that long ago."

"I should think not; it would have been highly inappropriate to then accept the offered position."

"I already had, if I remember right. Best decision I ever made." Harold grabbed his face again, forced their mouths together: a mutual thanksgiving for finding each other. Both of them were trembling, but not all the shaking was due to either gratitude or lust. John slid his leg between Harold's, for support and for friction, rocking gently, tantalizingly. "And what position are you offering now? We should aim for horizontal, for a start."

"Oh please God yes," Harold breathed, and tugged vaguely in the direction of the couch. It wasn't exactly the Ritz, John thought, but it would do; he'd try to dream about king-size beds later. If he got any sleep; there didn't seem to be much point to it.

They stripped each other with efficient haste. It said a lot about Harold's state of mind that he didn't object to his clothes hitting the floor. In response to the room's chilly air his pale skin came out in gooseflesh; John didn't see the joke until he'd made a great start on warming him up. Caresses like lines of fire, tracing one another's scars; teasing swipes of his tongue on throat, nipples, the full length of Harold's cock, the inside of Harold's elbows: he wanted to touch every inch of him, distract him as completely as possible, make him not _think,_ just feel. He wanted to do everything, and there wasn't time for that; he wanted them to know each other well enough to have a rhythm. A process. They had a good start on that, at least. He knew from experience that you could translate a working relationship into bed, but it wasn't the same as learning with time to read a body like your native language, to move on from generic _I like this so maybe he will_ to _rubbing him that way drives him wild every time; he likes to come in my mouth; he's ticklish; it's easier for him to be on top._ He'd watched Harold long enough to have cataloged his injuries, to know what made him hurt, but even without moving on to the gymnastics of actual fucking, he still had to stop to consider how much weight he could rest on him where, how he might be able to bend; and they didn't have a lot of space to work with.

But in between the apologies and the interrogatory grunts and almost falling off the couch a few times, they did well enough, with a few glorious moments, not all of which involved orgasms. Though those were pretty spectacular: pleading and hair-clutching as he sucked and licked Harold to climax, rewarded by a final moan so delightfully obscene it almost made him come right then, though it was better to wait for Harold's clever hands to bring him off. He'd always liked Harold's hands; now he worshipped them. They were going to be a nice last thought, if things went as he expected in the morning.

He made Harold laugh four times, too. That was the best part. Or possibly the worst.

When they were done he wrapped his arms around Harold tight and held him, just long enough for it to feel good and not long enough that either of them began thinking again about why he was doing it, and then gave him a hand to stand up, and watched him fussing over bespoke trousers crumpled on the carpet. They cleaned up and put on enough clothes to be warm, not discussing how they'd probably take them off again later, and raided their food and drink supplies for odds and ends of last supper, not admitting that they didn't want to leave the Library long enough even to get Chinese from the place on the corner. John felt as though a clock had stopped for a while, and now was ticking again. When he did look at the time, it was later than he thought.

In the intervals between sipping instant miso soup and chewing peanut butter crackers, Harold related to John -- in large sections quoting from memory -- the plot of an Asimov story in which an all-powerful computer, over millions of years, studies the problem of reversing entropy, and finally solves it, seemingly too late, after the universe has died. "And then it said, 'Let there be light!'" Harold finished with a flair, "and there was light," and John had blasphemous thoughts about a deity in dark-rimmed glasses, and took another sip of Brooklyn Brown Ale.

"There's another story," Harold said, with the casual air he didn't pull off very well, "in which Multivac tries to commit suicide by proxy. The attempt fails, but the ending's unresolved, because it's clear it'll try again. You should read it."

"I'll try to work it into the schedule. Is that a comment on me or on the Machine?" He didn't let Harold answer, hurrying to add, "We still don't know why Mirkovic is a threat to… Ernest. It can't be the bombs, right? Even if some of the servers are lurking in Manhattan, losing a percentage of them wouldn't kill the whole entity. And it's protected itself against other sorts of attacks."

"Not… sufficiently, perhaps, but… that can't be our primary concern."

"Exactly. Which is why--"

"No. You can't just… I'm sure there has to be--"

"Harold. Please don't. We've been over this. Just… eat your crackers." _Eat, drink; let's have sex again; let's do everything normal we own._

"They're stale. John, you are not here on this earth to be a sacrifice. A burnt offering."

"How do you know?"

"Because I know death is inevitable, but no particular death is. Because I've prevented many of them, and failed to prevent others, but I _could have,_ and that's what…" His voice trailed off for a moment, and then his jaw clenched and he added, "Did I ever tell you about Nathan?" As if there was any question whether Harold knew which secrets he'd revealed, or which ones he hadn't and John had figured out anyway.

"I know about Nathan, Harold." _I know he was blown up. Died from injuries sustained in, anyway; not as close to the bomb as I'll be._ "And I'm very sorry. But it's a completely different situation."

"I could have stopped him from dying."

"Maybe that day. And you both would have been killed the next week, or the next month. Possibly taking just as many people with you. Harold, listen. I don't want to die. But if someone has to, I'd rather it was me. _Just_ me."

Harold let out an infuriated huff of breath. "As long as you know I don't approve." His mouth twisted, and he added, "And I am not resigned. And I'd do anything to change your mind. This" -- he dismissed the remnants of the non-meal with a shove -- "is of insufficient appeal."

"I'm not hungry anyway." John let his gaze rest on the skin at the opening of Harold's shirt; it was stupidly confounding to see him without a tie.

"Then let me do something else to persuade you," Harold said, still furious and failing completely at the come-hither voice.

"You could tempt me back to the couch," John said. "But I'm not rethinking my decision. No matter what you come up with." He smiled. "Do your worst, though. I look forward to it."

"I had thought of _withholding_ climax, like… Scheherazade, but I've told enough stories. And I can't… I can't not give you what you want. Even if it's utterly unreasonable." He reached across the desk for John's hand. "I want to give you everything."

_You already have._

Back to the couch it was: they took it slower this time, an almost analytical exploration of sensations and responses, John massaging under Harold's shoulder blades while palming his cock, Harold tonguing John's ear as if trying to send a second-thoughts worm into his brain. John let it do its job; he knew he could dig it out later. If there was one thing the Agency had taught him, it was how to pull regret up by the roots and toss it away, and Harold hadn't changed him that much. For now, he let himself wallow: _I love you, I never want to leave you, I want this again and again for days and months and years._ Some of it emerged aloud, with echoes. John went over the top, unexpectedly, while listening to Harold gasp out how lost and alone he'd been before _you saved me, don't leave, don't make me go back, I don't want to be who I was then, touch me touch me oh, oh._ Half of it came out of his head and not Harold's mouth, but it didn't matter; it was all true.

Wrung dry and happy, Harold curled up within John's heat and went to sleep. Once John was sure he was deep under, he slid away, put a blanket over him and kissed his cheek, and then cleaned a few guns before letting himself out of the Library at five a.m. He walked the dark streets, bought a cup of coffee and a pink-frosted doughnut with sprinkles, because he had nothing to prove to anyone any longer, and waited on a park bench, gazing at the lights on the river, the looming presence of the bridge. They thought the bombs would go off during rush hour; John was counting on an alert to come through in time, notifying him where Mirkovic's car had ended up. He hoped it would be from the Machine. But it was Harold who called.

"John. Where are you?"

_You know where I am. You just want me to tell you._ "I'm fine, Finch. Where's the perp?"

"John, you know I don't want you to do this. That said…"

"Harold. Tell me."

"Washington Square."

_Shit._ His sensitivity to Harold's tones, already pretty high, seemed to have increased exponentially overnight; he could read the guilt and fear and self-betrayal like a printed menu. _One from column A, two from…_ "I'm on my way now. Don't worry."

Harold made an inarticulate noise, _how can you say that damn you fix this now,_ and cut the mike. But he could still hear.

"Bye, Harold," John whispered into the cold morning air. "It's been worth it." And then he shut off his phone, pulled out the battery, and got into the car.

***

Mirkovic was only halfway up the block from the deadly little silver sedan when John arrived; he took him down by the simple expedient of parking on the sidewalk where he was standing, grabbed his bleeding body and threw it over his shoulder, searching it for car keys and phone along the way -- located the former, but not the latter -- headed back for the bomb sitting just outside Grace's building, shouting at everyone he saw to get away. He bound Mirkovic with zip-ties and tossed him in the back seat, then took ninety precious seconds to examine the explosives in the trunk. Luck was on his side; they'd be triggered by a signal from Mirkovic's bomb vest going off, so he only had one deactivation to manage. And ten minutes to do it in.

He drove west as fast as he could. The closer to the water, the better; he might at least be able to drown the explosion if he failed. All the traffic lights were with him, not that he would have stopped for them anyway. He peeled off the Greenway into the first wide-open space he saw with a clear path to the river. There were too many other cars and people around to risk the bomb going off, so he dove into the back seat. Mirkovic was still unconscious. John had to use his phone again to acquire the activation codes, but it would take far more time than he had left for Harold to trace him. It was a repeat of the rooftop incident: five codes, three chances. _Pick a winner._ He started with number five. Then three. Then one.

Locked out.

There were ten seconds left on the timer when he scrambled back into the front seat and planted his foot on the gas. His fist hit the horn hard; the path ahead shook off pedestrians with strollers and dogs. There'd be nothing but air in another second: dead-on timing, he thought, and had the chance to grin before a car barreled in front of him, with no time to swerve before the crash.

***

He woke up lying on the ground. His first thought was _cold,_ and then _left arm broken, probably concussion, but not unconscious very long,_ and then, blankly, _I'm supposed to be dead._

Then he opened his eyes, and thought _Harold._

Harold looked worried and relieved and smug all at once. And cold. And…

"Kiss me," John demanded. And then, rethinking, "If you want to and there isn't anyone around who shouldn't--" but he didn't get any farther before Harold practically fell on top of him. The clinch lasted only seconds before Harold pushed himself back up looking prim, but that gave John enough time to remember what had happened and why he could smell the river.

"The bomb," he said. "Why didn't it…?"

"The Machine deactivated it," Harold said. "At the very last second, apparently, which I consider both overly dramatic and unnecessarily risky, although I don't think it expected you to drive for the water. That took it by surprise. It seems rather good at improvising, however."

"The other car," John said, remembering more. "The driver…?"

"Yes, I'm rather disturbed at these increasingly creative manipulations of technology," Harold said dryly, "but you'll be glad to know there was no driver."

"Oh, good. I was hoping it wasn't you. But you were here." That last second, pedestrians and dogs scattering…

"Yes, of course. Bear, _hier._ " A whine, and Bear was licking his face, until his broken arm got bumped and Harold called a halt to the affection. "Ambulance is on the way," he said, and indeed John could hear a siren. "And don't worry; Mr. Mirkovic is in the river."

"Thank you for taking care of that, Harold," he said, wondering if Mirkovic had died in the crash or… afterwards, and then he suddenly tried to sit up, though it didn't quite work. "The third bomb," he gasped.

"Found," said Harold. "Completely inert," he added with the same note of sardonic concern in his voice. "But designed to kill Ms. Morgan, I believe. What our mad bomber had against us and those we care for, I hope we'll be finding out shortly. But whether he ever actually targeted the Machine… in any case, it seems well able to protect itself. And us."

"Huh," said John, lying back on the gradually-warming ground and looking up into Harold's chilly eyes. "Well, I have to say I'm glad. And I bet the Machine is too."

"Well, yes. All that goes without saying." He could see Harold swallow. "I find myself greatly pleased at your continued existence as well, John."

"But it would have been painful for you if I'd died."

"Extremely. I might go so far as to say devastatingly."

John blinked away awkward tears and went on. "So if the Machine feels the same way, and I know it doesn't exactly, but for argument's sake… a threat to us _is_ a threat to it. So giving us its own number…"

The siren was very loud now, but he'd still let Harold work it out for himself. "But why not deactivate the bombs proactively?" he said after a moment.

"Timing," said John. "To not give Mirkovic the opportunity to make another plan. And… to give us a chance to think about the consequences of stopping him."

"Oh. Well, that's very…"

"Convenient?"

"Auspicious, I was going to say. In the full sense of the word." The siren's pitch changed; Harold turned his entire upper body to look behind him at the ambulance. John smiled. "I'll ride with you to the hospital," Harold said, turning back, "and take care of any issues that may arise. And then I hope you'll join me at home."

"Which one?"

"The one with the most comfortable bed, I should think, Mr. Reese." Harold's mouth twitched. "Perhaps I'd better just ask the Machine its opinion on the matter."

"Let there be light, Harold," and then the paramedics were there with the stretcher, and Harold touched his cheek and stood aside so they could carry him away.

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, it is another _Romeo and Juliet_ title; I am so very sorry. It's more appropriate this time?
> 
> The two Asimov stories Harold references are [The Last Question](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Last_Question) and [All the Troubles of the World](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/All_the_Troubles_of_the_World) (and OH PEOPLE you have to read the second one (it's online in full) and speculate about whether this is where they are going with the Machine, because IF SO OW).
> 
> "And I am not resigned" - Harold quotes Edna St. Vincent Millay, "Dirge Without Music."


End file.
